Tipsy
by Mistress-Samwise
Summary: [PG-13 for language][Post-LOTR] Frodo's shoulder is hurting again and he decides to remedy it with a whole bottle of wine. [F/S slash thrown in at the end]


mistress-samwise: I'm baaaaack! *hyper-hyper* Again.

Anyway, I only wrote this story for three reasons, and three reasons only.

1. To get Frodo drunk.

2. To then get him to say the word "fucking".

3. And, last but definetly not least, to get him to kiss Sam.

Yup. But I think it's a pretty okay story (that's just me saying, though). I wrote it in only two days. Not too shabby. And I was watching my brother play Sega GT on the XBOX while I was doing so. Man… That Corvette he bought… Souped it up to over 600 hp. It's so fricking awesome.

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      "Sam… Wake up…" Frodo muttered weakly as he knelt haphazardly at the side of Sam and Rosie's bed, shaking at Sam's shoulder. "Wake up…"

      There was a tired groan and Sam shifted slightly in his sleep. Frodo continued to shake Sam until he felt his stomach jump again.

      "Sam… Come on, Sam…" Frodo tried again, a little louder this time. It hurt to talk, more or less even move. Clutching at his belly, Frodo moaned in pain and settled his face into the sheets.

      "Wake up, Sam…" Frodo strained, his voice muffled by the mattress underneath it. He gulped heavily and forced a more commanding tone. "Now."

      This time, Sam woke up, sleepy and confused.

      "Huh? What?" he replied groggily, trying to sound awake. He then noticed his master's head buried in the sheets beside him. "What is it, Mister Frodo?"

      Frodo did not answer right way. Instead, he squirmed feebly and let out another groan of pain.

      "I don't feel very good…"

      Sam sat up quickly, being sure he did not wake up his wife. All sleepiness had left him instantly and he carefully slid out of the bed. He knelt down beside Frodo and wrapped one arm around his master's slender waist, the other stringing Frodo's arm across his shoulders.

      "Up you go," he whispered while cautiously standing up, bringing his master with him. Frodo hung limp in Sam's grasp.

      "Careful…" Frodo whimpered, feeling his stomach turn sharply. Sam nodded and slowly led Frodo out into the hallway.

      "I need to go outside," Frodo panted. Even though the hallway was dark, save for the moonlight, Sam couldn't help but notice how painfully ashen Frodo's face was.

      "Sir?" he asked timidly as they made their way down the hallway and out the back door into the garden. "Are you feeling alright—"

      Before Sam knew it, he found Frodo reeling forward out of his grasp, haphazardly collapsing to his knees on the cool grass. There he immediately became sick all over the lawn.

      "Mister Frodo!" Sam exclaimed, rushing to his master's side. He quickly got Frodo's sweat-drenched curls out of the way of his face and held them back until he was finished purging himself.

      "T-Thank you, Sam," Frodo voiced weakly as he slumped helplessly onto his side. Sam gingerly picked him up again and led him to the door.

      "Come on, mister Frodo," he murmured gently. "I'll make you some tea, if you still feel ill." Frodo nodded and tried standing up on his own. He was able to make it to the kitchen without any assistance. While Sam was busy lighting several candles and setting the kettle on the fire, Frodo sat hunched over on the table, his face hidden in his arms.

      "Oww," he groaned. "Don't light so many bloody candles…" Sam refrained from setting the last one, and sat down beside Frodo to wait for the kettle.

      "What's the matter, sir, if you don't mind me askin'?"

      Frodo moaned, half in pain and half in annoyance, and squirmed slightly. "It's my… ugh… my stomach. I… drank too much wine…"

      Frodo was not a very heavy drinker. "Too much wine?" Sam inquired. "Why? How much?"

      Frodo made another sound of discomfort at the mention of that. "Ooohhh… A whole bottle…"

      "A whole bottle!" Sam cried incredulously. "Why would you drink a whole bottle?"

      "It's… my shoulder…" Frodo rubbed painfully at his left shoulder. "It's hurting again."

      "It's hurtin'? But it's not even October…"

      "Did it ever occur to you that it could hurt outside of October?" Frodo replied snappishly.

      Rather than sounding offended, Sam answered with an equally as annoyed statement. "And your best idea was to drown your pain with wine?"

      "Oh, be quiet…" Frodo grunted. "I thought that… a little alcohol might lessen the pain… and then… before I knew it… the whole bottle was gone."

      "Oh, Mister Frodo," Sam said, trying hard not to sound harsh.

      "I'm still drunk, too…" Frodo chuckled. "That's definitely not something you see everyday…"

      Sam smiled and nodded while he stood up to get the kettle. Frodo watched in silence as Sam shuffled about, pouring the hot water into the teapot and pulling out mugs from the cabinet. The scent of lemon tea floated over from the other side of the table. Frodo was enjoying the lovely aroma while Sam served it up.

      "Ah… That's much better," Frodo stated after taking a deep swig. "Thank you, Sam."

      "You're welcome, Mister Frodo," Sam smiled. "Even if it is the middle of the night." He also took a sip out of his mug. "So, you say your shoulder is hurtin' again. I hope it doesn't too bad."

      Frodo shook his head drowsily. "No, not as bad as it does during October. But it's certainly bad enough." He idly massaged his left shoulder, kneading away at the annoying coldness that overtook his flesh time to time. He then suddenly dug his fingers deep into his skin. "Damn scar…" His last statement was cold and bitter. He then fell silent. Sam looked over into Frodo's sneering face.

      "Sir…?"

      "Oh, Sam…" Frodo muttered softly. "That October… That October…" He paused. "No… That _year_… That whole damn year for me was a living hell." He shook his head and buried his face in his hands, but Sam did not hear him sobbing. "It all feels like a nightmare… One that I had once upon a time, but also one will always exist to haunt my memories… A part of me still doesn't believe it even happened at all." He then lifted his face from out of his palms and stared at Sam, his hard, blue eyes clouded over by his drunkenness. "Do you, Sam? Do you?"

      Sam looked back at Frodo and was speechless. He didn't quite know where Frodo was going with this.

      "I can't blame people for thinking I'm mad," Frodo continued with an odd laugh. "Just think about all of the things that happened to us. Ringwraiths, Moria, Amon Hen, the Dead Marshes, Cirith Ungol, Mordor itself… People are right not to believe us. We're supposed to be dead. But we're not."

      "Yes, we destroyed the Ring and, yes, Middle-earth was spared from perhaps the greatest evil it has ever seen, but what do we really have to show for it all? Tales about far-off fantasies that mean nothing to the people here? We're just another amusing oddity to them, just like Bilbo was. Our stories to them are fairy tales… good for keeping little children occupied. They mean nothing. All that matters to them is the fact that they can continue on with their sick, pathetic lives, still blissfully unaware as they always were."

      "Yet, that was the exact thing I was fighting to preserve. My people should never have to know the evil I had lived through. I had thought that maybe if I sacrificed myself for the good of my people, the pain I experienced would never have to reach their lives. But I was wrong to do that. I had not intended to return home alive. And not only was I alive, but nobody wanted to accept that all I had done even occurred at all. No matter how much I hate them for thinking so, I know they have all the right to think so."

      Sam was silent until then. "Mister Frodo," he pleaded. "Just what is it you're tryin' to tell me?"

      Frodo looked up at Sam again, this time with eyes full of drunken anger. "What I'm trying to say, Sam, is that, after all the hell I went through, I didn't even destroy the Ring myself." He held up his right hand for Sam to see. "A year spent getting It from here to there… Pain, death, and bloodshed… Desolation and self-sacrifice…" He stopped to look at his marred hand, seemingly caught between hopeless amusement and rage.

       "And the only way I could have It parted from me is to have it bitten off my hand," he stated flatly, and then fell silent. He stared intently at the gap between his fingers, a crooked grin growing on his lip. Then, out of nowhere, he started to laugh. It was no more than a chuckle at first, but it turned into an involved snicker. Sam was confused at this sudden change in emotion, and was about to say something, when Frodo suddenly stopped laughing completely. His fist clenched and his eyes narrowed to hateful slits.

       "Do you know how fucking _ironic_ that is?"

      Sam nearly jumped in surprise. "Mister Frodo!" he yelped. "Now, what did you say _that_ for?"

       "Don't _you_ start on that!" Frodo spat. "I should be able to say whatever the hell I want! I'm not going to let anybody boss me around, especially not Samwise Gamgee."

      Sam was particularly taken back by that last statement, and he was not about to tolerate it. "With all due respect, sir, I had no intention to 'boss you around'. Or should I remind you about that whole bottle of wine you drank?"

      "You stupid bastard, of course I remember that!"  Frodo yelled crossly. He growled loudly in aggravation, first over Sam, and then over himself. "Bah… Damn it!" Then, he heaved a long sigh and slumped over onto the tabletop. "I'm sorry, Sam. I'm just so… very angry right now."

      "I understand, sir."

      Frodo sighed again. "You're the only one who does."  He went quiet with thought as he peered idly into his empty tea mug. Sam reclined back in his chair, drank up the rest of his tea, and yawned tiredly. Frodo felt a little tired himself, not to mention the pounding headache that just started to creep up.

       "Sam," he voiced softly.

      It took Sam a moment. "Hmm?"

      "Thank you… for not judging me."

      "What do you mean by that, if you don't mind my askin'?"

      "I can't imagine how many times you and I have been in situations like this. I mess up, and you bail me out. I act like the world's biggest son of a bitch, and you still stick by me." He laughed quietly. "I just don't know how you can stand handling me."

      "Now, now," Sam replied with a small grin. "If there's one thing I can't 'handle', that's you goin' and degradin' yourself like that." He took both tea mugs and stood up to place them on the counter. "I'll have you know, Mister Frodo, that I consider you the finest person I know."

      Frodo chuckled. "Shall I tell your wife that you said that?"

       "Sir," Sam stated flatly, far from amused. He sat back down at the table. "I was bein' serious." His face was slightly colored. "I admire you deeply, Mister Frodo." He flushed even darker and shyly lowered his face. "Actually, sir… I—"

       "I'm getting very tired, Sam," Frodo broke in, cutting Sam off before he could finish his statement. "I'd think it best if we both got some sleep."

      Sam lifted his head up and nodded. "Yes, sir." They both stood up from the table. Frodo swayed and caught himself by the chair, clutching at his head in pain.

       "Do you think you can help me?" Frodo requested. "My head is killing me."

       "Of course, Mister Frodo." Sam pulled Frodo's arm across his shoulder and guided him out of the kitchen into the darkened hallway. Frodo fast grew exhausted. His chin fell to his chest and he grew heavy in Sam's grasp.

       "Just a little farther," Sam stated as he reached for the knob on the door to Frodo's room. He turned it, and the door slowly swung open.

       "Thank you, Sam," Frodo muttered hoarsely. "I'll take it from here."

      Frodo then staggered over to his bed and flopped over onto it. With much effort, he was able to pull his legs up over the side and turn himself around in order to get his head onto the pillow. Sam patiently waited by the door as Frodo finished drawing the covers up around his shoulders.

       "Good night, Sam," Frodo said with a yawn.

       "Good night, Mister Frodo," Sam replied softly. He turned around and stepped out of the room. He was just about to close the door behind himself when he heard Frodo speak again.

       "No, wait."

      Sam stopped and looked over his shoulder at Frodo.

       "Yes? What is it, sir?"

      Frodo did not answer immediately. "Come back over here, Sam."

      Not sure what was happening, Sam slowly stepped back near to Frodo's bed. "Do you need me for somethin'?" he inquired curiously.

      Frodo made a small groan. "… Closer."

      Sam reluctantly stepped forward a little bit more. He waited to see if Frodo would say anything. Instead, Frodo reached out with his right hand and grabbed Sam by his collar. Sam let out a small gasp and Frodo then yanked on it powerfully, pulling Sam right down with it. And suddenly, to his surprise, Sam found himself in the middle of a very ardent kiss. Already, Frodo has his tongue in Sam's mouth, lovingly stroking at the inside of his cheek and the front of his throat. Frodo moaned softly into Sam's mouth and let his hand slip from Sam's shirt collar.

       "Mmmnnn…" Frodo sighed in pleasure, pulling his lips away. "I always wanted to do that." He grinned warmly and drew his hand across Sam's cheek. "And I think you did, too," he added, dropping to a low, husky whisper. "Good night, Sam."

      As Frodo turned over to finally go to sleep, Sam was still paralyzed, trying hard to regain his breath. His unblinking eyes were as wide as saucers and his face a very dark red. Before he felt like collapsing onto his knees, he found his way out of the room and closed the door behind himself. There, while trying to cling to the wall, he slid helplessly to the floor and sat there for a long moment in a sheer daze. Eventually, he wandered back to his room and laid down on the bed beside his wife. As he quickly started to fall asleep again, he secretly hoped the feeling of that kiss would last longer than Frodo's hangover the next morning.

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      mistress-samwise: And that's my story. Cooky, wasn't it? Oh, the many things you can do with a drunken character…

The real annoying thing about this story is how often I had to change some of the dialogue. I also had to take great measures to keep the dialogue down. I could have had them going for pages and pages, but I thought that would be too boring.

Now, if you excuse me, I want to go play Sega GT. Huzzah.


End file.
